Death Do Us Part
by madebymadness
Summary: Tate Langdon is a student at Westfield High, alive and full of angst, when new student Violet Harmon transfers from out of state. He is immediately drawn to her like a moth to a light. But, is this light enough to drown out the darkness in his soul, or will his tainted mind drag her down with him? - Still in progress, feedback welcome!


The year is 1994. An irritable Tate Langdon walks, his shoes scuffing the floors of Westfield High as he unhurriedly progresses down the hall towards his fourth period class. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his dark denim jeans, the shrill ringing of the late bell doing nothing to hasten his pace. He frowns at the ground and greasy blonde locks fall over his eyes as he enters room 207 - English 12. He gives the teacher a sideways glance and smirking slightly, he takes an open seat in the back. The teacher frowns a little but does not stop the lecture and continues on without addressing him.

Tate slouches in his seat, dark brown eyes scanning the room behind a sullen glare. He picks at a flake of skin beside the corner of his thumbnail, then bites it absentmindedly. His spits the bit of skin out onto the floor before his gaze falls on the girl sitting beside him. His glare deepens.

She is thin with long legs and dark blonde hair. Her expression is that of indifference, though her hands remain clenched in coiled knots in her lap. She's not taking notes, but from the intelligent look in her eyes, he knows she probably doesn't need to. He's never seen her before, and he is flooded with a sudden, peculiar feeling of interest toward her.

Dark eyes flick in his direction, and her head turns slightly in pursuit. Her brows furrow together, regarding him with a questioning look. He flashes a grin and winks at her playfully. She raises her brows in acknowledgement, then awkwardly looks away, pursing her lips. His smile dims, though he doesn't look away.

His steady eyes remain fixed on her and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, keeping her eyes to the front. After a moment of his blatant staring, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheet of paper, ripping it slightly on the way. She begins to write something down, and for a moment, Tate wonders if she's decided to take notes after all. In a swift movement, she slides the paper off of her desk and places it quietly onto his, eyes still fixed ahead.

Why are you staring at me?

He frowns at the paper; the bluntness of her question catches him off guard. He clenches his jaw and reaches into his pockets for something to write with. Realizing he didn't bring anything to class, he reaches over and taps her twice on the shoulder. She looks over and opens her mouth to say something, but he interrupts her before she can make a sound.

"Can I borrow your pencil?" He asks with an abashed half-smile. "Please?" She hesitates then gives a curt nod and hands him the pencil. His smile widens a little before he turns to the paper to reply.

You were staring, too. . .

His smile remains as he folds the paper once before handing it and pencil back. She frowns slightly, trying to decipher his messy scrawl of a reply. He watches as the corner of her mouth curls up slightly as she begins to reply. Abruptly, the pencil and paper are pushed onto his desk.

What's your name? I'm Violet.

He folds the paper without replying and slips it neatly into his pocket. A wry smile touches his lips and he leans over to her, so that his breath caresses her ears.

"I'm Tate." He whispers, then dispenses the pencil onto her desk. He finds that she smells of coffee and flowers and cigarettes; it's intoxicating. He leans back a little, so that they are eye to eye. "Violet," he tests the word on his mouth, enjoying the sound. "I like that name." A flush creeps over her cheeks, but she otherwise remains composed.

"I like Tate, too," she says under her breath.

"You wouldn't if you knew him," he replies sardonically. Their eyes lock and his breathing hitches, making him feel unusually vulnerable. He had never been so affected by anyone, so how is it that this girl is able to undo him so thoroughly with a look?

Suddenly, he meets the cool stare of the teacher and, moodily, he leans back in his chair tapping his fingers on the desk. His glower burns a hole into the teacher's back while he continues to sulk in his chair. With his mood sufficiently ruined, he puts his head on the desk and hides in his own private darkness, refusing to look up for the remainder of the class.

The ring of the bell penetrates his isolation from the world. He sits up in a daze, vision blurred from the pressure of resting on his arm. He blinks a couple of times and realizes Violet has left. Ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth, he leaves the classroom and heads to the library for lunch hour.

The library is moderately filled, the same faces stuck in the same kinds of books at the same tables. He meanders over to the wildlife section – it's small and relatively secluded in the corner of the otherwise open room. He pulls out his favorite books and drops them onto his usual table. He walks over to the librarian and asks for a piece of paper and pencil, then walks back over to his corner.

He is halted by the sight of Violet's small form sitting in his seat flipping through the pages of one of the books. A smile creeps over his lips and slowly he approaches the table, quietly, so she doesn't notice him. He leans over the back of her chair and looks over her shoulder.

"I like birds, too," he says. She turns to look at him, closing the book as she does.

"Why do you like them?" she asks, eyes fixed on him as he sits in the chair across from her. A sad smile touches his lips as he contemplates the answer.

"Because they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess." He says with a shrug, then reaches for one of the books in the pile. She watches him in silence as he sketches images of birds onto the blank paper in front of him, breathing life onto the surface. After a moment, she breaks the silence.

"You're really good at that, you know." She says, still watching him intently. "Do you take any art classes?"

"Not really my thing." He says dismissively.

"What _is_ your thing?" she asks and bites her lip. He flashes a devilish grin and regards her playfully.


End file.
